features were of a mould so delicate as to preclude all thought of
intellectual operation.

She was begirt with a flowing kirtle of deep blue, bebound with a belt
bebuckled with a silvern clasp, while about her waist a stomacher of
point lace ended in the ruffled farthingale at her throat. On her head
she bore a sugar-loaf hat shaped like an extinguisher and pointing
backward at an angle of 45 degrees.

"Guido," she murmured, "Guido."

And erstwhile she would wring her hands as one distraught and mutter,
"He cometh not."

The sun sank and night fell, enwrapping in shadow the frowning castle
of Buggensberg, and the ancient city of Ghent at its foot. And as the
darkness gathered, the windows of the castle shone out with fiery red,
for it was Yuletide, and it was wassail all in the Great Hall of the
castle, and this night the Margrave of Buggensberg made him a feast,
and celebrated the betrothal of Isolde, his daughter, with Tancred the
Tenspot.

And to the feast he had bidden all his liege lords and vassals--
Hubert the Husky, Edward the Earwig, Rollo the Rumbottle, and many
others.

In the meantime the Lady Isolde stood upon the battlements and mourned
for the absent Guido.

The love of Guido and Isolde was of that pure and almost divine type,